


Cut Your Little Heart Out

by fiach_dubh



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood, D/s, F/F, Face Sitting, Fallout 4: Nukaworld, Knifeplay, Knives, Nukaworld, Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Sapphic September, Undernegotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Violence, blood play (minor), canon typical language, dysfunction, raiders (fallout) - Freeform, references to past torture, references to past violence, terrible people having hot sex, unsafe kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiach_dubh/pseuds/fiach_dubh
Summary: Nisha and Mags don't trust each other in the slightest. But that doesn't mean they can't fuck, right?Porn without Plot.





	Cut Your Little Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> OK PHEW I think this is an important note.
> 
> \- DO NOT DO KINK LIKE THIS. knifeplay and bloodplay are inherently unsafe kinks, and even more so if you do them like Nisha and Mags do them here! If you want to do kink with a partner, negotiate beforehand and have a safe word. Informed consent and research are important for sex, friends!
> 
> \- Nisha and Mags are terrible, awful, evil people and my thinking they'd have some seriously hot (if dysfunctional) sex shouldn't be taken as a tacit approval of their behaviour. I am capable of liking and enjoying evil characters without thinking their actions are ok.
> 
> \- This fic contains blood, violence, references to past violence, and kink so badly negotiated and unsafe some people might feel it skirts the borders of dub-con. If any of that is likely to bother you, please move on. Look after yourself.

Mags doesn’t show nerves. Of course not. Nerves are a cow thing. She’s not a creeping, shrinking, frightened nobody and never has been.

But if she were, by any chance, capable of nerves, Nisha might make her feel them. She’s all vicious, blood-stained intelligence and it leaves Mags weak, shuddery, heart buzzing and stomach tight.

She can do better. She has done better. As her own brother said when he found out, there is no accounting for taste. All the same, it keeps happening, doesn’t it.

They meet, every so often, at the old Red Rocket, the closest to neutral ground they can find. They bring a selection of two or three bodyguards, of course. Neither of them are stupid women. Trusted people, who’ll sit quietly, shouting distance away, and not say a word and not kill each other. She puts herself at this risk, at this danger –

And Nisha isn’t even pretty.

Mags, at least, makes an effort for their meetings. Not too much of one, but enough to show respect. This time she has put a bright red ribbon in her hair. It matches her underwear, not that Nisha will notice or care.

She arranges herself in a tattered chair, settling in a way that looks casual, but still catches the light on her face in a flattering way. She opens a copy of an old hair and beauty magazine, and works at looking engrossed. The fragile pages flake and crumble under her fingers if she’s too rough. There’s little in her life that allows or demands gentleness, and to an extent it pleases Mags to consider herself capable of it, if the prize is worth it.

She doesn’t need to spend long poring over two-hundred year old hairstyles or makeup tips before she hears the door open and close. She waits a few seconds, all show, before raising her eyes and looking at her guest.

Nisha looks as she always does, as if she has put no care into this meeting at all. Not for the first time, Mags wonders how she sees from under that mask.

“You’re late,” Mags says. “I’d say that’s rude.”

“Terribly uncouth,” says Nisha in a mockery of Mags’ accent and way of speaking. “I had some discipline to hand out.”

Mags glances down to Nisha’s hands. Her nails have blood under them. They often have blood under them, but this looks redder, fresher. Mags shudders, not entirely from disgust.

“Will you get that hideous mask off before we get started? You know I can’t bear things to be so ugly.”

Nisha chuckles low, and slips it off her head, revealing her strong and hard-angled face, her colourless eyes smudged round with black. Her hair is pressed flat in the shape of the helmet and dry at the ends. She is dangerous-looking, unlovely, in the same way a weapon can be, and Mags crosses her legs and squeezes them together tight.

“I can smell your cunt already, Mags,” Nisha says. It’s insulting, and crude, and so very effective.

“Yes, well,” Mags says. “I can smell old blood all over your clothes, and don’t feel the need to comment.”

Nisha crosses the room to her, booted feet slapping against concrete. and puts her dirty fingers under Mags’ chin, tilting her face up. “I think you like it.”

Mags smiles, pouts, then moves quickly enough to bite at Nisha’s fingers. The taste is sour and earthy, but that’s fine. More than fine. It’s good.

Nisha gasps.

“Vicious little monster, aren’t you?” she sounds admiring. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

Nisha’s voice has gone low and almost growling. Mags looks at her and smiles, all promise.

“Strip,” says Nisha. “Strip for me.”

Mags spreads her still clothed legs and grabs Nisha’s hand, presses it hard against her groin.

“You can’t order me around, Nisha.”

“Can’t I?” says Nisha, slow, dangerous, enough to make Mags’ cunt clench on nothing. Fuck, but she wants, she wants.

She’d do as she was told. It’s never been like that before this, before Nisha. To cover it (this is weakness, this is a place someone could put a knife in, this is something that can’t be risked) she lifts her chin, sneers.

“You can try. I’ll only do as I please.”

“And it happens to please you to strip, I suppose.” Nisha’s grin is predatory. Sharp. She’d suspect Nisha of filing her teeth to points, if she didn’t know that Nisha’d consider such a thing ‘Pack stupidity’.

Mags lets Nisha move back, so she can stand and start undressing. Her fingers don’t shake as she takes her armour off, but only because she doesn’t let them. Nisha leans against a wall as she strips down to just her suit, then the shoes and socks come off, the suit trousers, the jacket, and she’s just in her shirt and her red silky underpants. She puts her gun, her neat little 10mm, on the table next to the chair.

Anyone other than Nisha would show some sign of being pleased, of wonder about being allowed to see such a thing. Mags Black without all her protection, white thighs soft and bare. Nisha just pushes herself off the wall and stalks to Mags, shedding armour and clothes in careless speed as she does.

Mags is lovely naked. She knows this about herself. Even with the harshness of her life she has retained some of the smooth, softly curving lines she had in her more pampered youth, and she hasn’t picked up too many scars.

Nisha, on the other hand, is not lovely, or soft, or smooth. She looks like what she is, a woman raised to the raider life, knowing nothing else from childhood. She has hard angles to her, ropey muscles, flat breasts.

Mags loves to run her tongue up those strong, muscled thighs, finds having them wrapped around her head among the most satisfying experiences in the world.

Her heart beats. She is not weak, she is not unprotected, she is not a wilting flower to be trampled, but still her heart beats so that she can feel it in her temples.

They don’t bring much in the way of weapons to these little events. Mags brings her 10mm, because being without it is more naked than naked. Nisha brings her knife, because Nisha is never without it.

You can only trust so far, which is to say, not at all.

Normally, once they are both naked, they make an exaggerated display of laying the weapons down, placing them out of reach. A wordless statement – in this, at least, we are safe with each other. No such promise outside, but here –

Today, this hasn’t happened. Nisha is naked, and Nisha still has her knife and the inevitability of it is in her head, all of a sudden. Because of course. How could she think anything else? That Nisha, a woman who once skinned a man for fun, who wanted power and fear laid at her feet like tributes, wouldn’t use Mags’ vulnerability here to make a move?

Well, so much for that, because Mags isn’t stupid either. She grasps for her gun, and quick as anything has it against Nisha’s jaw.

She backs Nisha up, step by step, until she’s pressed against the wall again, and this time Mags has the power, she has the drop. At least, until Nisha brings the knife (sharp, deadly) up against the tender skin of Mags’ throat.

“I should have known,” Mags says. Her cunt is still aching, wet.  
“Steady, pretty. I wasn’t planning on killing you with it. That’d be much less fun than my actual plans.”

Mags looks into her bright, light eyes, licks her lips. The knife edge hovers against her neck. One wrong move and she’d be bleeding out. The threat of it. A little pressure, a little movement –

There’s a silence between them, taut and fragile, and in it Mags’ sucks in a little gasp.

“Ohhhh,” says Nisha, “I knew you’d –“

Mags doesn’t let her finish. Instead she drags Nisha’s head forward with her free hand and kisses her hard enough to break Nisha’s lips against her teeth. She tastes blood, feels sharp pressure against her pulse point, and the feedback sensations make her wet, so wet, wetter than she has been before.

They break apart, both breathless. Mags’ cunt is slick, wetness spreading out so she can feel it on her soft inner thighs.

Nisha brings the knife down, to between the hard points of Mags’ collarbones. Mags, in response, lets the gun dip down.

One quick knife swipe gets a button off Mags’ shirt. Then another. And another. Until the shirt hangs loose and the buttons are all scattered on the floor by her feet, and her high breasts and soft stomach are revealed, for Nisha’s hands, and Nisha’s knife.

“If you cut my bra off,” she says, breathless, “I will make you regret it. It’s pre-war silk.”

“Take it off for me, then,” Nisha says, the knife point hard against Mags’ breastbone.

Mags moves away, just enough to place the 10mm carefully on a bedside table, and to shrug the ruined shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her. She does like to make a show of it. She reaches behind her to unhook the bra, in its delicate, blood-red silk, and lets it fall too, until she’s just in the pants, vivid red against her pale skin. She knows very well she makes a stunning picture.

“Get on the bed,” Nisha says and Mags is in the mood to do as she’s told, instead of fighting it. Fighting can be for next time.

She arranges herself on the bed to look beautiful, to look stunning. She thinks Nisha likes it, though Nisha rarely shows any feelings aside from lust or anger.

Nisha twirls the knife in her hand. It catches the light, glittering deadly. Mags catches a breath, holds it til her chest aches from it.

Slowly, so slowly, Nisha pours her sharp and angled body onto the bed with Mags. Slowly, so slowly, she brings the knife to the hollow of Mags’ neck.

“So very pretty,” she says, and it’s threat as well as compliment and it makes Mags want to buck her hips. “You are going to have to stay very still,” Nisha says.

With one hand she presses the sharp tip of the knife against the skin of Mags’ neck, with the other she reaches between Mags’ legs. She strokes, gently, against the crotch of the silk lingerie, feeling out contours and shapes, deliberately (it seems) avoiding clit, avoiding anything close to the sort of friction Mags wants.

“Come on, Nisha, touch me right, touch my fucking clit –“ her statement cuts off sharp as Nisha angles the knife quick and cruel and breaks the skin. Sharp sudden pain, but god, god, god. “Oh,” she says. “You sure know how to use that.”

Then Nisha grins, and she drags the knife down her body, between breasts, down to the soft skin of Mags’ stomach. Not hard enough to break the skin this time, but enough to leave an angry red line, enough to make Mags spark up inside. She follows the red line with a rough finger, tracing it, feeling it out.

“Don’t move,” Nisha says, and Mags doesn’t, but it’s so – so –

Nisha pulls the panties aside, to gain access to her pussy. She traces a finger over the labia, finds them slick and ready, and sucks the juices right off her fingers.

“You’re more than ready for me, pretty,” she says, and doesn’t do anything about it, and Mags thrashes up – “Oh you teasing BITCH –“ and the knife bites in again, deeper this time but not lethally deep, deep enough for real pain and bright blood and Mags is lightheaded, not with disgust, not with fear, not with anything except wild, unimaginable lust.

Who knew? Who knew the sight of her own blood would do this to her? Who know that the threat and the danger would make her pliant, willing, submissive? Not her. But Nisha did, apparently.

The knife, gleaming. Dragging up and down her skin, around her breasts, her nipples. Each breath of sharp potential being accompanied with rough fingers on her clit, inside her cunt. The threat of pain and blood mixed with deliberate, focused stimulation. Not being able to move. Not being able to buck her hips into Nisha’s hand, force the issue – get it where she wanted it, chase the orgasm at her own pace –

But all the same, she was getting there, she was close.

“I love how pretty you mark up. I love how easy it is to bruise you. Your skin is so thin –“

(She wants to hurt us), Mags’ brain tells her, and her heart beats harder for it, and her groin and belly and thighs are liquid and hot. (She wants to hurt us. We want her to hurt us.)

She’s dizzy with it, with promise and want and threat. All her money and all her breeding had never brought this to her.

So close. She’s so close. Thoughts fragmenting, vision blurring, gasping out nonsense and animal sounds –

Nisha stops.

“No, pretty,” she says, knife still resting against the soft planes of Mags’ stomach. “You’re gonna make me come first.”

“Yes,” says Mags, and doesn’t say anything like ‘always’ or ‘anything for you’, though she meant it.

“I’m going to sit on your face now.”

And then it’s the hot, animal smell and taste of her, wet and organic. Nothing smooth or clean or elegant about this, Nisha on top of her, Mags unable to breathe without getting a mouthful and noseful of her cunt. Nisha facing down Mags’ body so she can see it all.  
As she’s working her tongue deep inside Nisha, lapping up the taste and wetness of her, she feels Nisha’s knife again. Idle circles on ribcage, on stomach, sharp drag of metal against skin, keeping her turned on, keeping her wet, making her work harder for Nisha’s orgasm.

She can taste it coming. A rush of liquid, salt-tangy. Nisha moaning, grinding her cunt against tongue and teeth and lips. Then Nisha’s thighs clenching, tight, hard, round Mags’ face as she comes silently and the knife – the knife –

It breaches the skin for the third time. Mags’ doesn’t shy away from it or buck into it and both are hard work. A burning hurt in the soft skin under her breast, the hot seeping tickle of her own blood. And Nisha, Nisha –

She gets off Mags’ face, gets off leaving her gasping and desperate on the bed, and she presses her thumb over the wound and smears the blood, rapt attention, all love and lust, and she bends her head and, and – laps at it, like a dog at a water bowl and Mags moans, wants.

“I could drink you dry, Mags,” Nisha says and Mags is all yes, do, please. Cut me, mark me, drink me all up.

The things she thinks, when she’s almost there.

Swift, brutal movements of Nisha’s fingers and hands bring her off with almost robotic efficiency (and that’s a thought, for another time). And she screams and she is and the world isn’t here and doesn’t matter and nothing matters. She bites at air, and then Nisha’s fingers are in her mouth, so she bites those, too.

And then it’s done, and she’s coming down, mildly appalled at everything she has said and done and thought.

Not too appalled to shudder in pleasure just at the memory though. She always was a dual-natured thing.

Nisha lies down beside her, puts a finger to the cuts. They’re sealing already, not deep after all, as it turns out. The pressure still makes Mags hiss and flinch away.

“That was fun,”

“Part of me thought you’d skin me alive.”

“You’re prettier with your skin on, Mags.”

Mags snorts, presses an arm across her eyes. The light seems very bright now, when earlier it seemed dull.

“Sometimes I think you’d crack open my ribs and eat my heart right out of my chest.”

“That sounds more like Pack nonsense. I’d keep it in a box, under my bed, forever.”

Yes. She would. And that’s the closest either of them can get, maybe, to an acknowledgement that there’s something here in this room between them. Nothing insipid for them. It’s all blood and muscle and grit and death. But you take what you can get, in this world, and you snatch what you want, and you make the best of all of it.

She doesn’t kiss Nisha before she gets up and dresses. It’d be too close to weakness.

**Author's Note:**

> Guess I ended up writing something for Sapphic September after all. You're welcome?
> 
> Title is from 'Girl with One Eye', the Florence and The Machine version. Have a listen, and try to figure out who is thinking it about who in this mess.
> 
> Ialpiriel checked it over for me and got rid of the worst of my britishisms.
> 
> blog at @bisexualpiratequeen on tumblr, if you want to talk.


End file.
